Blogs

“What time is he coming?” questioned retired nurse, Hannah Philatic.

“For the third time this Morning… 11.00 am!” replied her Partner-in-Crime, Joe Boxer.

“ I am the one that suffered multiple blows to my head not you!” he said hands shaking violently.

“Sorry, but it’s this Long-Covid…it’s a bugger with your memory!” said Hannah.

“ And I am nervous too!” she continued.

Hannah checked the letter headed by a green Westminster Portcullis.

“I never thought that I would get to meet the Health Secretary, Mr Handjob, in person!” she squealed excitedly.

“It’s not Hand-job -It’s HanCOCK !” scolded Joe “And don’t call him that for F***’s sake or he will definitely stop our funding!”

Following his retirement from the ring, due to the early onset of Parkinson’s disease, Joe and his business partner, Delroy Boyd from the house clearance business, they had turned into a pair of entrepreneurs.

Movers AND shakers if you like.

Their latest venture had been to turn the former Green Boxing Hall at Eighth Avenue into a vaccination centre for the local population on the Galon Uchaf Estate.

It was known locally as Jabber the Hut.

The Secretary of State for Health was so impressed with their reported performance levels in administering the vaccine shots that he wanted to see the place for himself.

Wales was ahead of England yet again and not just in terms of Six Nations Rugby and he wanted to understand why.

It was also an opportunity to turn yet another traditional Labour heartland into a Tory Blue voting area.

After all, Merthyr Tydfil had voted on a majority basis for Brexit – principally because they believed the Conservative lie that they would be able to stop immigration.

If there was one thing the residents of the Estate did not want, it was Foreigners coming over here and taking THEIR benefits.

Considering there were only a thousand residents within Motability scooter battery distance, they had done very well in their returns to the Department of Health.

Especially as there was only 500 people actually living on the Estate.

To ensure they were AL L inoculated within a week was extremely impressive and worthy of praise from Central Government.

After all, large swathes of the Country were misled into believing that the vaccine was made up from a combination of dead baby stem cells, Bill Gates Spunk, Arsenic and a tracking device.

Certain sections of the great unwashed didn’t believe that there was in fact an invisible germ that was killing them just because they were all obese.

Besides who wanted to live to the age of 35 anyway?

These people didn’t want any microchips, unless of course they were from McCain that is.

Nor did they want anyone checking on their every movement, whilst they were on Facebook or their Mobile Phone.

How else could they moonlight as a window cleaner, painter, hairdresser or nail beautician otherwise?

Their employee-Hannah was a large lady indeed.

Like most ex-nurses that had actually survived the pandemic, she was grossly overweight.

Her arse was so big that you could balance a cup of coffee on it without her knowing.

In contrast, Joe being an ex-pugilist was built like a split-pin.

His body was his temple and his claim to fame was that he had once had a part as body double for World Champion Merthyr boxer Johnny Owen – in the film ‘Snitches get Stitches’.

Both Joe and Delroy had been forced to live by their wits.

Dodging and weaving in the Business World just as they had in the ring.

It was strange how close the two former boxing rivals had become after retiring from taking low blows, and had both come up with joint ventures that had kept them one step ahead of the local rent collector.

After throwing in the towel, they had become designers of men’s underwear- and marketed a brand of men’s underpants that stretched automatically as they bent over.

It was named after a ‘left/right combination’ of famous people.

A Labour politician and a millionaire boxer.

It was goodbye to Builder’s cleavage when you owned a pair of ‘Wedgie Benn’s’.

Facebook had afforded them the business opportunity their parents and grandparents never had.

But the pair never rested on their laurels.

They were always looking to their next big venture and they realised that the time was right, just like everyone in the Government to cash in on the Tax-Payer during the pandemic.

They saw it as a way of getting some tax money back from Central Government -even if they hadn’t actually paid any themselves.

It was surprising what a bout of hysteria in the media could do to drum up business.

They had tried their hand at creating PPE out of old boxing head guards and gloves, but found that no-one in the local Queen Camilla hospital wanted to go into work looking like Muhammed Ali.

Not even Doctor Muhammed Ali.

The next best thing was to create their own supply of vaccine to the Third World – or Galon Uchaf- as it was known locally.

They had an insider in the hospital- a friend of Hannah, who was happy to smuggle a phial of the experimental Oxford Vaccine out and a Sixth- Former in the local Penydre School with a C at O Level in Chemistry to create their own knock-off version.

They could then undercut the competition by reducing manufacturing costs and jump the waiting list by purchasing directly from the pair under their Company name of Jabber the Hut Limited.

The advert on Facebook for their product boasted of a special ‘Happy Hour’ deal.

They had even added their own ingredients to help fight off the different variations of the germ that had developed in the former United Kingdom.

The Government recommended that a person be given a first shot of the vaccine which could provide up to 75% cover for six months and a further jab within twelve weeks to bring up immunity to 93%.

With the Jabber the Hut vaccine- which contained coffee and diet-coke and crystal meth- two shots was never enough.

Some people just coming back for more as they had become addicted.

Now in Galon Uchaf money had gone by the wayside.

They had reintroduced the barter system, as it didn’t affect their state benefits.

There was no Universal Credit level cut-off when it came to the number of chickens that you kept in the garden.

Outside the hut, queues were starting to form- all two metres apart that had been spray painted onto the pavement like a Premiership referee marking a wall from goal.

The fear of the Kent variant, meant that long queues just like that of the HGV lorry drivers near Dover were forming all the way down First Avenue.

A black limousine, now missing one of its wheel trims, arrived at the Hut and out stepped a weasel looking man surrounded by more bodyguards than Maria Carey.

He was ushered into the Hut to meet the owners but obviously to avoid shaking their hands.

‘Good Morning….said Hancock swiftly changing into a white lab coat for the photo opportunity before adopting the Tory Power stance which made him look a politician desperate to hold onto his deposit.

“Welcome Matt!” said Joe hands already shaking but not making contact.

Hannah curtsied and the sound of ripping of material could be heard in the street.

“I always wanted crotchless panties Mr Cock…!” she blurted out without thinking.

The glare from both Joe Boxer and Delroy Boyd was worse than the face-off at the Nigel Benn and Cwis Eubank fight.

Hancock then point up at the Price Tariff Board and enquired if it was a joke designed to raise spirits.

He read aloud:

‘One shot of Astra Zenaca for £3.00 or two for a Pfizer’.

He was surprised to also see a list of vegetables underneath and their vale on the Galon Uchaf equivalent of the FTSE index.

He then enquired as to where the vaccine was stored as it had to be below minus 80 and minus 60 degrees.

Joe opened the door and proudly displayed his storage area.

It was a former ice-cream van marked on the side as ‘Crony-Bell’.

“If you are a good boy you can have a ‘Moonshot Rocket Ice’ with it in exchange for one turnip- thanks to you we have lots of lolly!!!!” said Anna trying to be helpful.

“What about people who do not possess green fingers?” chuckled the Health Secretary.

“Then we have a watered-down version of Astra Zenaca for them…in Wales -we call it the ‘Poor Dab’!” replied Del.

“We do however warn them that there are some potential side effects- such as not being able to ever work again but strangely enough most people in this area are happy to accept such a risk!” interjected Joe.

“Who administers the vaccine?” asked Hancock.

Hannah stepped forward wearing a pair of Alan Titchmarsh gardening gloves and a phantom of the opera mask autographed by Michael Crawford covering her eyes only.

“Me!” she said proudly.

“I used to be a nurse and I had the pleasure of training under my good friends Baroness Munchausen Beverley Allitt and Dr Harold Shipman in Manchester!” Hannah continued.

“So that is how you got on the approved supply list….a Baroness!....of course!” said Hancock.

“Of course, I only put this gear on not to frighten the kids, as I tell they that I am really the ‘Masked Syringer’ off the Saturday Night Show of the same name!” continued Hannah.

“Although a lot of them already know how to find a vein, lots of them have seen their parents chasing the Welsh Dragon!” she continued in a matter of fact fashion.

“That was why we set up this Gym in the first place…interrupted Joe Boxer…to teach the females in the families how to dodge punches in the ring….otherwise it would be a bloodbath in this pandemic!”

“ A regular Quentin Quarantino!” if you like!” interrupted Del pleased at his comedic ad lib.

“Do people REALLY live like this in the 21 ^st Century?” asked Hancock of one of his aids horrified at the prospect.

“Never been to Merthyr before then Butt have u?” said an elderly woman sticking her head around the door.

“Who the Hell are you?” asked one of the Bodyguards from Serco.

“Mrs Paula Grady!” fired back the resident.

“Who wants to know?” she spat back with all the viciousness of a cat in the middle of a cat fight.

“Her Majesty’s Health Secretary” came the reply.

“Look…replied Paula….I queued up overnight to make sure that I was first in line for the jab…to give you an idea of what it was like - imagine the queue for Wimbledon or outside Harrods on Black Friday before Christmas….except with more Police sirens and Fire Fighters being pelted with stones!”

“Or in Merthyr the queue for the Dole Office!” she continued.

“Please let her in Officer….she has been outside since 5am in sub-zero temperatures…she will be our first guinea pig of the day!” said Hannah.

Joe tried to distract the Health Secretary from that comment.

“Before we inject them with the vaccine…we try to put the patient at ease by asking a few simple questions!” Joe said showing his authority.

“Name?” asked Joe shaking whilst holding the clipboard giving the appearance of the former football scores vidiprinter.

“Paula Grady!” replied the elderly woman.

“Address?” asked Joe.

“53 Thirteenth Avenue!” she replied.

Joe raised an eyebrow suspiciously as the Avenue count only went up to Twelve.

“Age?” Joe questioned further.

“Eighty years of age!” replied the old crone.

“Date of Birth!” he continued left eyebrow raised higher than Everton manager, Carlo Ancelotti.

“01/04/1991…sorry I meant 1941!” said Paula.

Joe reached across and snatched at the elderly woman’s beard sharply.

It revealed a much younger woman in her early thirties.

“Well Mrs Doubtfire…where do you think this is?..... America?” he said booting the woman up the arse out through the door of the hut.

“I thought it was suspicious….no-one has all their OWN teeth at that age on this Estate!” said Joe triumphantly.

“When can I have my vaccine? Because I am in category Ten!” moaned Paula (whose real name was Dani La Rue).

“Come back after Meghan Markle gets accepted back into the Royal Family with open arms!” said Joe.

“Come back any sooner and you will get a different jab!” shouted Delroy, as the attempted fraudster slunk down the street.

“So near…. so Spar!” Paula moaned shaking her head to the next imposter in the queue.

“I think we have seen enough!” said Hancock signalling to his lackies.

“What about our licence….will it be renewed?” asked Joe nervously.

“Can you make a donation to the Conservative Party?” asked the Health Secretary.

“Will a sack of turnips, some prizes from Castle Bingo and a chicken do?” asked Hannah.

“ I think we already have enough vegetables in the Cabinet already!” came the reply.

The Welsh traditionally were interested in their genealogy.  From the endless “aps” and “ferchs” that preceded the edicts of the Act of Union to the closely penned family trees contained in homemade prefaces to prized Bibles, they felt connected to their predecessors and homeland through collections of names and monuments.

I was an awkward and sullen youth, not really interested in my tribe beyond those I could see, my parents and their parents, my uncles and aunts.  I grew into an awkward and sullen adult albeit one with a developing fascination and preoccupation in what came before.  I recall the afternoon when I realised that a lot of my future time would have to be devoted to the past. I was at the graveyard of a chapel called Pensarn on the outskirts of the village of Caerwedros in Ceredigion, Wales.  With me were my mother and sister.  My mother had been born and brought up in this little, out of the way village and we were there to visit the grave of her grandmother.  What struck me about the grave’s headstone was the story it contained, an account of people with names crammed and carved into stone.  I learned the name of my great grandfather who had died three years before my mother’s birth.  I also discovered that there were two children I was not aware of.  One, a man, had lived into his twenties, the other, a girl, had not even made her second birthday.  I was impressed by the wealth of information, the tragedy and the triumph, the self-assured use of the Welsh language, the poetry enshrined in slate.  I remember disturbing a lizard that was basking in the sun in the vicinity of a glass jar I happened to move near the grave.  I was to return to this tranquil spot many times, identifying about a third of its graves as those of my family members.

My search for my ancestry began in earnest with interrogation of my parents. One of the reminiscences that my mother had carried with her since her childhood was of oranges that her mother used to receive from the USA each Christmas in the late 1940s and 1950s.  My mother didn’t know the identity of the thoughtful person who made these presents available to this family of seven children at a time when such luxuries were quite rare in that place.

About ten years ago I paid a visit to my mother’s cousin who had moved from her village to the isle of Anglesey.  He was older than my mother and as a result had more history to share.  He gave me a copy of a document called The Families of Davies and Evans, a history including a detailed list of American and Welsh names and addresses from the early 1800s to the late 1960s that had been given to his father Daniel Davies by a man called David Wendell Hughes. He was from Lincoln City, Nebraska and had come to Caerwedros in about 1969 to look for his Welsh family. The visitor believed that he and Daniel were related but could not say exactly how.  He was descended from Reverend David Davies and Mary Jenkins.  Rev Davies was closely connected to the little chapel I visited at the start of my search and Mr Hughes believed that the minister’s family was instrumental in providing the land on which the chapel was built.  Daniel related that his father who had been born in 1851 also claimed a connection with a family that left the village for America in the time before his birth. On leaving my cousin that day, he shared with me that he didn’t subscribe to this theory despite what his father had said.

Armed with dozens of names of the descendants of a Welsh Calvinist Methodist preacher and his wife, I set to work trying to fill in the missing pieces of this Atlantic jigsaw.  I obtained a copy of the certificate of the marriage of my great great grandfather, another Daniel Davies.  His father was named as David Davies whose occupation was described as preacher and Daniel’s address on this happy day was Tirgwyn, the ancestral home of the migrant Reverend David Davies.  Although this was some evidence, it was mostly circumstantial: after all, why hadn’t Daniel sailed away too?

I like my history and I like the history in my family history.  I decided to research why a southern Cardiganshire family in the 1830s might choose to leave their country and never return.  I ordered a very informative book from my local library, Calvinists Incorporated: Welsh Immigrants on Ohio’s Industrial Frontier by Ann Kelly Knowles.  This publication explained that about 3,000 people, mostly Calvinist Methodists, had left the sparsely populated county of Cardiganshire for Ohio between 1818 and the middle of that century. They had been persuaded to make that long and dangerous journey because of religious persecution, oppressive taxation following the end of the Napoleonic Wars, an increasing birth rate, and disputes with landlords.  David and Mary Davies of Tirgwyn in the parish of Llandisiliogogo are mentioned in this account which said they arrived in Ohio in 1837 then moved on to Minnesota in 1856.  It seemed to be an organised sort of exodus, the Welsh, to start with at least, sticking together on the other side of the ocean. Once again I had the feeling I had often experienced, that sense that I had been denied some of my history, that somehow it was not important for a West Welsh boy to learn of significant events that occurred in his impoverished county in the century before he attended school.

Using the tools available to the seeker of family history, I unearthed records of baptisms at Pensarn Chapel of a number of the Davies children who had gone to America with their parents.  I was however, unable to find one at that chapel for my Daniel Davies.  It transpired that he was baptised in Llanarth Church which is about two miles from Pensarn Chapel. This record showed his father as David Davies, Methodist preacher, of Tirgwyn, Llansilio.  I assume that Llansilio was shorthand for Llandilisiogogo.  The mother’s name is oddly missing from the actual record  though in the modern transcript she is named as Mary Jenkins.  The baptism was in 1820, seven years before the birth of the oldest of the Ohio-bound children. I found that David and Mary were married in 1826 in St Tysilio’s Church near Caerwedros.  This would suggest that the boy baptised as Daniel was born out of wedlock.  This would have been a scandal in the narrow beliefs of the participants especially as the Davies family was heavily involved in the Methodist movement of the time and perhaps Daniel may have initially been brought up by his grandparents.  This, coupled with his age at the time of decision making, may have led him not to want to leave or even not being given the choice.  Maybe Ohio was too much of a potential lion’s den for this Daniel. However, it could also have simply been a case of him intending to join his family at a later date, something that occurred from time to time among other Cardiganshire immigrant families. His uncle Jenkin Davies, a renowned preacher and the only member of my family with an entry in the Dictionary of Welsh Biography, died in 1842.  Perhaps he too was planning to join the Calvinist Methodist exodus and travel to the States with his own family including his nephew.  There is no evidence for any of these theories though one of them is likely to fit.  Daniel is not mentioned as a son of David Davies and Mary Jenkins in the document The Families of Davies and Evans but then this was compiled at least a century after the event and memories can become unreliable at that distance. I guess the story of a journey is of those who made it, not those who did not.  These were unexpected conclusions, ones that did not seem to provide enough corroboration.

An exciting new tool available to the researcher is DNA.  I had submitted a sample of mine to the Ancestry.com website some years ago and I was delighted to learn that a woman living in Oregon and whose name was included in the document The Families of Davies and Evans was a match to me.  She was descended from David Davies and Mary Jenkins.  This in my view validated my hunch which was further reinforced by another DNA match, also of a person in the The Families of Davies and Evans document. This distant cousin lived in Maryland but had been brought up in North Dakota and his mother had been born in Minnesota.

I have yet to unmask the identity of the kind soul who regularly provided my grandmother and her seven children with a much needed seasonal treat. My cousin in Anglesey believes he has an old postcard "somewhere" from someone who could have been called Betty and who could have posted the card from Florida.

Delving into one's family's roots and migrations can be frustrating and lonely, a sort of "minority sport" like poetry, something people know that they should enthuse over but just haven't got the time or the tools to comprehend the sheer weight of numbers that lead directly to them. I am glad to report that my family on the whole is receptive to my findings. My uncle revealed that in my great grandparents house in Caerwedros was a Black man money box. This uncomfortable cultural artefact was mass-produced in the USA and exported to Europe in the late 19th century. Could this have been another gift from our New World cousins?

I am pleased that many Americans hold dear their Welsh heritage. In my search I received crucial information and support from the Great Plains Welsh Heritage Centre in Whymore, Nebraska, the University of Minnesota in Mankato, and the Blue Earth Genealogical Society, Minnesota.

That long forgotten branch of my family had many adventures and were among the earliest settlers in what was to become the state of Minnesota. I will watch movies featuring depictions of Sioux Indians somewhat differently in future. Reverend David Davies became Reverend Doctor David Davies and two of his sons and five of his grandsons also became Ministers of Religion.  One of his Caerwedros great grandsons also followed in his footsteps, albeit unwittingly perhaps. 

In Wales, at least, the land remembers. At the funeral, at the graveyard of the disused Pensarn Chapel on a bright summer day in 2017, of the last Davies cousin to live in the village, I lazily made conversation with one of the bearers, a local man I had not met before. I was amazed when he recognised what I told him about the ancestors of the cousin of mine he had just helped to inter, that they had emigrated from that village to Ohio in 1837. One hundred and eighty years later and the people still remember though the story had slipped from the consciousness of the affected family for a number of potential reasons: my grandparents left the village while their children still lived with them; my grandmother died at the age of 48; my great grandfather had been 20 years older than my great grandmother and as a result was not around to share the tale of the grandparents and uncles he had never met with very many of his family; in the rush and distractions of our continuing diaspora, we were in danger of forgetting who we were.

I was born in Cardigan, Wales and honoured to be so. I could so easily have been born in Lake Crystal, Minnesota and would have been equally honoured with that outcome.

Statue of Eddie Thomas, Merthyr Tydfil cc-by-sa/2.0  - ©  Ian S  -  geograph.org.uk/p/4001542

“ When shall we three meet again?” asked Daniel Druff dramatically.

The remaining two members of his drama group at Merthyr Tydfil Technical College stared back from their online Zoom meeting and shrugged their shoulders.

“I think it best if the ‘Read Brigade’ meet in person to discuss our proposal, in order that no third party can infiltrate our Group or stop our plan…agreed?” continued Daniel.

His fellow Brigade members of Grant Aide and Douglas Deep nodded their approval from their respective bedroom laptop computers.

“5.00 am at the statue?” he suggested.

Daniel was the ringleader of a plot to get even with society over the issue of the unfair treatment of Black & Asian people caused by the British Empire and all it stood for.

His lecturers (when he saw them on the Merthyr Tydfil equivalent of the Open University) called him Danny Boy.

Post-Brexit English Nationalism was on the rise and like everything in this World this was the check and balance.

Danny Boy was the antidote to fascism.

He wanted to push back.

Daniel was so incensed after watching the 1970’s Alex Halley mini-series ‘Roots’, that he felt that he should make his stand with his Bristol brethren, who had demolished slave trader and capitalist Edward Colston’s statue and thrown it into the harbour.

Daniel wanted to do the same with other forms of slavery- just like the 19 ^th  Century English Ironmasters, Crawshay, Guest & Homphfrey had done to Dowlais, Cefn Coed & Merthyr Tydfil but couldn’t find any statues to tear down of these evil tyrants.

The ‘Read Brigade’ decided that they would have to make do with the former Coal Mine- Owner Eddie Thomas statue in Georgetown- on the justification basis that he was always surrounded by people with black faces which were beneath him.

They felt that miners should be included in the definition of BAME- Black and Mineral Extracts- after all the history books showed that the members of the NUM had taken ‘Rodney King-style-beatings’ from the Police at Orgreave Colliery and other places around Great Britain in 1984.

There was no doubt that Daniel Druff had rebellion in his blood.

His family had descended from Irish immigrant ancestry that had come to Merthyr to work in the Ironworks after the terrible Potato Famine that had hit Ireland.

He was fed up of decades of Tory Rule and was particularly incensed, as the current Government had taken away his one chance of going abroad by removing the Erasmus Programme Post-Brexit.

No longer could he or his fellow students have the freedom to roam Europe or have roaming data but the inept handling of the coronavirus issue by the same Eton Mess,  had meant that a visit to the European Continent was now out of the question for the foreseeable future.

He was determined to follow in the footsteps of the Chartists, who had met at the nearby Cambrian Arms Public House (currently closed in its modern- day form of the Lantern) and raise his own ‘Read Flag’ of defiance to the powers that be.

5am was a little early but if he wanted his disciples to be ‘Woke’ then this the appropriate time.

Besides, they would get a march on the Police at that time in the Morning, who were probably dozing in their vehicles on night shift.

Z ZZ- Cars most likely.

They really did give ‘two hoots’ to make sure their subversive agenda was met. 

They had all agreed to dress the same.

Balaclava Road black ski-mask and khaki camouflage coats with tracksuit bottoms for warming their hands down the front- in true Gurnos tradition.

They wanted to give the appearance of Irish Terrorists but not too fashion trendy-they didn’t want the Sun newspaper to refer to them as the ‘New Look’ IRA. 

Daniel was first on the scene and had brought with him the tools for the job.

His neighbour’s van had a sticker on it saying that no tools were left overnight in this van.

Daniel had made sure this statement was true by pinching them.

If there was one thing young Daniel had taken from his schooling at Penydre High School, it was his ability to break into vehicles.

He had a jack-hammer, sledgehammer (once registered to one Peter Gabriel) and a series of guy ropes. 

He stood next to the tall figure of Eddie Thomas former boxing promotor, mine-owner and former Mayor of the Town.

He stood hands out as if sparring in the air.

Daniel was determined that this stand would make a show that the underclass of Merthyr Tydfil had risen again, once more against their puppet masters in Westminster and Cardiff.

They no longer spoke for him.

Talk and debate never got anywhere- it was time for direct action.

Grant was second to arrive and hooted loudly before he emerged from the thick bushes on Avenue De Clichy, left to go wild after the initial landscaping budget had run-out.

That was the way with Merthyr.

Nothing was ever maintained the way it should be.

Always cutting corners and opting for cheap rather than quality.

Grant had his own hidden agenda.

He wasn’t as committed to the cause of his fellow students as Daniel was.

His plan was to achieve notoriety and achieve a career path of his own.

Activist.

Media Exposure.

Reality Show influencer.

Strictly Come Dancing.

I’m a Celebrity get me out of here.

Welcome Break Magazine Cover model.   

Retire to Emmerdale.

Unlike Norwich Union- Grant really wanted to make a drama out of a crisis.

With that, forgetting to hoot came Doug Deep.

But then again there was little need -as you could hear him coming from a mile away, after all it is difficult to silent pushing five stolen Iceland trollies.

“ It’s no wonder Peter Andre is ripped….pushing this bloody lot uphill from Town!” he said gasping for breath like an asthmatic smoker with one lung.

“That Long- Covid really takes it out of you!” he rasped noisily.

“What’s that Gibberish written on the front handlebar?” asked Grant.

“Bee Gee language of course from the Isle of Man!” replied Danny Boy pulling their legs.

Grant and Doug looked blank.

“Welsh…c’mon boys it’s your Mother tongue!” said Daniel.

“What does it say then?” asked Doug.

“I have been trying to read what it says while I was pushing them!” he continued.

“May contain horsemeat!” stuttered Daniel trying to convert it into English for the pair of numbskulls.

“That’s not horsemeat!” proffered Grant as he pointed into the final ‘fifth columnist’ trolley.

“What the F*** is that!?”  asked Danny.

“It’s my Jamiriqui hat for the start of the Friday, Bloody Friday rebellion….I bought it on e-bay for £5.00….only cost me £40.00 in postage too….bargain…!” replied Doug.

“Besides, you told me that you wanted us to get on national television and what better way than wearing a Red Indian Buffalo Hat?” Doug replied.

“Didn’t you think we would lose the support of the vegetablists?” said Danny wisely.

“Most of Merthyr is now vegan after seeing the looks on the faces of the sheep and cattle being transported up the Slip Road  to Cowsvitz in Pengarnddu!” agreed Grant. 

“Any way, no time to lose, the sun is coming up and we need to separate the statue from the Plinth of Wales before the Cunstabulary release what we are doing !” ordered Danny.

As he unloaded the jack-hammer, Grant – the electronics wizard- began to patch the power supply into the adjoining traffic lights shorting them out.

Just like the film Ocean’s Eleven, another Danny had a masterplan to help their cause by creating mayhem with the traffic in Avenue De Clichy which would prove even worse than the existing confusing road layout.  

Ocean’s Eleven had nothing on River’s Three.

As Doug Deep dug deep, it came as a shock to the three would be rebels that the ground around the statue was so soft it took minimal effort for the statue to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Merthyr equivalent- the mining subsidence hit Edwardsville Swimming Baths where the shallow end was now 45 feet deep.

“Stop!” warned Danny, as the statue began to list at a 3.99 degree angle.

Both of the others ran into position to support the statue and were shocked to see how light it actually was.

“It’s hollow!” declared Danny surprised- noticing a tracing crack around the neck of the former Mayor- where his goldie looking chain would have been.

“A bit like Nigel Farage’s life is after achieving Brexit!” he continued.

“Bring the trollies around to the front!” ordered Danny, just like a foreman of the Council watching others toil away filling the potholes in the road with fairy dust.

Grant manoeuvred the Iceland metal carts with a mind of their own under the structure and lowered the statue onto them to take the weight.

“Take the knee!” shouted Danny back straining under the weight.

Doug immediately dropped to the floor like a Pre-Match Premiership footballer.

“No….you dopey bastard…HIS knee!” screamed Danny to avoid a sucker punch from the Welsh Muhammed Ali.

There was no cheer like the fall of Saddam Hussain in Baghdad, just a few grunts that would turn into full-blown hernias in 20 years time for the foot soldiers of the Read Brigade.

Now controlling one Iceland Trolley with a wonky wheel is hard enough, but attempting to guide five of them downhill on a slope towards the Civic Centre is a Herculean task best left to Greek hero of the Underworld Sisyphus.    

The runaway train of carts began to pick up pace with the incline and like most drivers in Merthyr refused to stop at the junction with Avenue De Clichy.

There was a massive ‘wind rush’ as the students flew pass the Council Offices and out onto the Fire Station Bridge without stopping, mounting the pavement and finally only coming to a halt when it bashed into at the metal bridge railings- leaving the statue teetering like the van in the 1968 Italian Job film over the edge of the parapet.

“Oi…what are you bunch of teenage delinquents up to?” shouted local Official, Hectorz House, who appeared to be cleaning peanut butter off the outside of the windows of his office attached to what looked like a bungee chord.

“I may be suspended but I am not having that….Not In My Back Yard!” he screamed at the trio.

The volatile situation was bad enough as the three students had to use all their puny muscles to keep the statue from going over too early.

They wanted maximum publicity and the arrival of local ITV news correspondent, Hanna Barbara to film the event.

She had received a tip-off to be at the bridge at 5.15am for some excitement which would go far beyond the usual local news stories such as a goat being born in Vaynor with the face of Jesus Christ.

As she arrived the bridge, the Mexican stand-off with Hectorz and the Fire Brigade, just like the River Taff was in full flow.

“What are your demands?” asked Hanna pointing a microphone in the face of Doug, still partly covered in goatshit.

Doug just smiled weakly, as the cannabis from Amsterdam he had smoked early that morning to give him Dutch courage kicked in, as he tried in vain to hold onto the feet of the deceased boxer.

The Fire Brigade had already worked out a plan to defuse the situation and Fireman Sam ‘Sparkes’ Toomey was busy twirling a lasso around his head.

Its purpose to ‘rope a dope’ if he had too.

Hectorz House too was closing in on the students from the other side of the road.

“That’s close enough!” warned Danny, reaching into his pocket with one hand and producing a neatly typed list in Gaelic Font.

“The demands of the Read Brigade are as follows:

One : the immediate demolition of all statues of slave traders and Ironmasters in Wales.

Two: A declaration that Winston Churchill and Tony Blair be deemed War Criminals.

Three:  That all student loans be wiped and replaced by Student Grants – except for those doing a degree in David Beckham Studies.

And

Four : The release of all political prisoners currently held on Gogglebox.

“ It is Merthyr Council Policy not to negotiate with Terrorists or Blackmailers!” replied Hectorz.

The crowd suddenly gasped as the Official had used the B word in public.

A Note was immediately added to his extensive Personnel File by a member of the Council CIA (Council Interview Associate).

“Now if you drop that Statue into the River Taff you will never get that job at the Guardian Newspaper as a Fifth Columnist  and will be in big shit!” Hectorz continued.

“ I will see to it that you lot get more F’s on your college report than if it was marked by Gordon Ramsey!” hectored Hectorz.

The flooded River had turned black from the overflow of 58 unsafe spoil tips that still blight the Unitary Authority Land.

It was also receiving raw sewage from the Morlais Brook outlet , with turds now racing the squadron of plastic bottles dumped on the steep side of Abermorlais Tip.

Daniel was not an easy one to imidate.

He decided to fight fire with fire.

“Very soon we won’t be the only ones!”- he said pointing the boxer in the direction of Cardiff Bay.

As he did so, the top of the Boxing Promoter suddenly fell off into the raging River below.

Miraculously, just like a miracle of Fatima, the gathered crowd watched as Eddie Thomas face did a reverse Michael Jackson and turned from white into black.

Some began genuflecting. 

Then even more miraculously for Merthyr, a series of Ten Pounds Notes began shooting out of the head of the statue like a broken cash machine.

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” said Hectorz, trying to hold onto his trousers- as the Monica Lewinsky career following female assistants from the Council surrounded the Dreamboat.

“I think you have discovered the fabled Reddy Money from the Atlanta Match in 1987!” he continued.

“Quick Fireman Sam….jump in and retrieve the monies we could plug the Gap in the Council Budget with that lot!”

Too late.

 The three students in a pre-determined plan all smiled at the ITV Camera, produced their mobile phones and shouted ‘Selfie!”

As they did so, gravity took effect and the remainder of the headless statue toppled into the fast-flowing Taff waters, before landing upright on a small island- standing there stranded just like Robinson Crusoe.

The Iceland Trollies, one by one, tried to follow the statue into the raging black waters as if drawn in by some ghostly invisible drunken hands on a night out at Koolers.

Just like the three students- they had to be forcibly restrained.

It was just another Black, Black Friday in Merthyr alright.